


A Wee Song

by Jasque



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 04:38:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2838203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jasque/pseuds/Jasque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A silly ficlet where Elsa sings Let It Go and Rumpel has to wee</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wee Song

**Author's Note:**

> Based on repeatinglitanies' [prompt](http://repeatinglitanies.tumblr.com/post/98643111873/prompt-elsa-sings-let-it-go-to-belle-in-the-car).

"Bae, why don't we sing the snowman song?" pleads a brown-eyed man.

"No! Let It Go!"

"But you've sang it eleven times. Surely you must be bored of it," splutters the harried father.

"We haven't covered it all, Mr. Gold. Like the Japanese and Korean versions!" Bae's friend, Elsa, pipes up.

"Yeah. The German and Norwegian versions, too!" his son supplies.

Nicholas Gold groans when the 5-year olds start to warble off-key. This. Is. Hell. He wonders what possesses him to think a sing-a-long is a good idea on a four-hour drive. His head is spinning and he can feel the children lightly bouncing in the back seat. Their little movements making him queasy and the uneven road is not helping matters.

Vainly, he tries to focus on something with less… exuberance. Like the monotonous landscape for example—the same dull and dusty panorama in the last two hours. The only change in scenery is a lone figure with a backpack cycling on a garish green-pink bicycle—down the same direction he is heading. If there's one thing Mr. Gold knows about people it is that no one is trustworthy. Hitchhikers and backpackers are at the top of that list. No sane person cycles down this lonely road and he doesn't stop to offer them a ride (not that his heart is bursting with the need to help). Anyway, the pounding in his head only makes him want to reach home faster. He is not going to waste his time helping others.

***

Driving down a dreary countryside is not a pastime of his. Neither is spending the summer holidays at a beach. They never bode well for his ankle. But Bae has never been out of their hometown, Storybrooke, and had wanted to spend his summer at the beach. Great was his reluctance, the greater was his inability to deny his son anything. Hence, the tiny family found themselves spending a week under the scorching summer sun. The pain in his right ankle is worth the blinding smile on his son's face.

On the fourth day of their vacation, they bumped into the Fryse family, literally. The squealing from the children was definitely not human. The Norwegian family had migrated to Storybrooke three years ago. Mr. Fryse had accepted the position of a senior lecturer at Storybrooke's University, moving his family there a year later. Elsa, their eldest daughter, had difficulty in befriending the local children. They teased her mercilessly for her thick accent. Bae, his brave and beautiful child, took the fair-haired girl under his wing and they became fast friends. So when Bae asked if Elsa could spend a few days in the salmon castle (as Elsa has taken to call it), the parents agreed.

Thinking of the children, his mind wanders back to them. Through the rear mirror he can see Bae's head bobbing to the song while Elsa flails her arms in a dance. A sudden wave of nausea washes through him. Do children not get tired of singing the same song for two hours? They should be getting sick of it by now, because he is. Ugh. What a stupid question to ask, of course they don't. Bae and Elsa answer that question for him. Someone needs to perform a study on the possibility of decrease in IQ due to lengthy exposure to a song on repeat. And they need to include the effect it has on one's concentration capacity. He's willing to fund that research… well shite. Now he's losing his sanity. Maybe he needs to pull over, empty his stomach, and drink something. Yes. That sounds like a sound plan.

Pulling over, Mr. Gold tells the children he needs to stretch his legs. He knows the child safety locks are on, but he still warns them to stay in the car regardless. Rummaging the boot for water, he finds them hidden behind the beach bags. Opening one, he greedily drinks it, causing a few drops to dribble down his throat. He wipes them off with the silk handkerchief from his breast pocket.

The severe man feels the telltale signs of sweat forming on his scalp before making their trek down his neck. This is what a few minutes under Maine's summer sun do to him. Twenty years of living in Maine and his body still hasn't adjusts to its summer. As time passes, the sandy-haired man stubbornly refuses to think of the wetness gradually forming under his arms.

Lunacy is probably the only answer why any man would wear a three-piece suit while on his summer holiday. Mr. Gold however, relishes in the power and armour that come with the suit. They make him appear threatening and he enjoys when others squirm under his gaze. But with his shirt clinging disgustingly to his back and under his arms, he doesn't feel menacing. At all. Downing the last bit of water, Mr. Gold throws the bottle over his shoulder before entering the car.

He's about to drive off when someone knocks insistently on his windshield. He tenses, fingers tightly gripping the steering wheel that his knuckles turn white. His left hand immediately reaches for his cane, a scathing remark poised at the tip of his tongue. Raising his eyes, brown curls and blazing, azure orbs greet his sight. Sweaty shirt clinging at just the right places temporarily disarms him. He tears his gaze away and once again finds himself mesmerised by those bright eyes, failing to hear the quietness in the car. God, what a stunning creature!

"Papa, the lady wants you to open your window," his son's voice breaks the spell.

The woman now stands next to his door, knocking on his window seat. He lowers the window halfway and notices the woman's green-pink bicycle. ‘Oh,' the only singular word his brain supplies.

"May I help you, miss?"

The brunette says nothing, only handing him an empty bottle through the opening. Mr. Gold's eyes flicker back and forth from the woman to the bottle.

"Uhh, I am not sure what—"

"No littering," is her curt answer. Mr. Gold feels heat blooming on his cheeks. The woman's eyes crinkle softly at the corners before they land on something over his shoulder. "You're supposed to set an example to your children," she whispers before flashing the backseat occupants a smile. And just like that she wishes them a safe journey before cycling off. He stares dumbly at the woman who is slowly becoming a speck of dust in his vision.

Bae makes a sound and looks at him through the rear mirror, a smirk already in place. Moment like this never fails to remind him that this little miracle is his son, the only good thing to come out from his failed marriage. He's glad there's a part of him his son inherited. Giving his son a similar smirk, Mr. Gold harrumph before pointedly ignoring that little voice in his head, sounding eerily like Bae's, telling him he's a litter bug. A fact that he vehemently denies.

"Papa, aren't you going to offer her a ride?"

"What did I say about strangers, Bae?" His son lists down the rehearsed list on dangers of trusting an unknown person.

"Never trust strangers, especially backpackers and hitchhikers." With that, they continue their journey on the asphalt road. Less than ten minutes of driving, they pass the green-pink bicycle. But this time its owner is sitting on a boulder, shoulders hunched forward and the contents of her backpack scattered on the ground. There's no mistaking the red liquid trickling down the length of her leg is blood. He doesn't know where the concern comes from but he stops at the side of the road before reversing the car and offering help.

***

Downing half a litre of water wasn't his best idea. In fact, it was his worst. The children decide to continue their singing. He doesn't know what language they're belting out, Mandarin, perhaps? He is sure that it sounds nothing close to Norwegian. His not so silent third passenger is worsening the situation. She joins them, even encourages them. When she asked if they know the lyrics to ‘Let It Go', the children bounced excitedly before they screeched out the lyrics. At the end of this journey, he will make a couple of phone calls and file a lawsuit against Walt Disney.

"Are you okay, Mr. Gold? I can drive if you need rest," asks a concern Belle French. Miss French, the daughter of that bumbling florist, Maurice French, is nothing like her father. The only thing he can see of her father in her are the shade of his eyes and his bubbly disposition, which she has in abundance. She spent seven years of her life studying and gaining work experiences before coming back to Storybrooke.

Storybrooke is a small town. That means everyone knows everything, and it is evident to many that Mr. French's health is deteriorating. Mr. Gold assumes that might be the reason why an adventurous person such as her is returning to the quiet town.

"I'm fine, Miss French," is his terse reply as he pulls his thoughts away from the French's.

The woman rolls her eyes at his thorny answer.

Nicholas Gold knows without a doubt he is far from being fine. Squirming in his seat, his eyes wildly scans the road for a petrol station. The children worsen his discomfort when they sing ‘Let It Go' in English, earning a whimper from the menacing man. He grits his teeth and rapidly drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

"Mr. Gold, I am not an idiot. We can stop at the side and you can… let it go behind the bushes." Said man looks at the woman next to him in horror, noting the glee dancing behind her eyes. How terribly uncivilised of her to suggest such a thing! Mr. Gold shakes his head in the negative.

Mr. Gold swears the woman mutters something about him being a stubborn mule. Well, he is not going to consider the suggestion of someone who name calls him. What an ungrateful woman, to call him names after she accepts his help. He's going to kick her out if he hears another peep of insult from her. But first, he needs to stay still, maybe it'll expand his bladder. Sadly, hope doesn't always go in the direction we need it to. In that unfortunate moment, Elsa starts to sing the chorus.

Losing his battle, Mr. Gold hurriedly stops the car before dashing out to the nearest bushes. Howls of laughter erupt from the car before the chorus to ‘Let It Go' accompanies the moment he relieves himself. Miss French will pay heavily for this. He tries to catch her eyes from above the bushes to glare at her, but when their eyes meet, he's unable to stop the little flipping of his heart. Even his organ betrays him, the traitor!


End file.
